


"Me" time

by randomisedmongoose



Series: Behind closed doors [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anal, BDSM, Ben Wa Balls, Choking, Cock & Ball Torture, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Femdom, Fisting, Masturbation, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polymachina, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Fantasy, Size Kink, Stomach Bulge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomisedmongoose/pseuds/randomisedmongoose
Summary: The members of Vox Machina take a little "me" time, each in their own way.





	1. Percy

**Author's Note:**

> Oh dear god. I finally found a fandom I’m well enough into to find inspiration for fanfic. This is my first fanfic ever. Aaaaaaand it’s smut. Yey!  
> Tags are for all chapters - not all chapters have the same kind of content! Set in a sort of nebulous “now” with no real continuity. Not spoiler-free!  
> Some chapters are very much inspired by the awesome fics “Steel and Smoke and Skin” by vex_populi (http://archiveofourown.org/works/7806949) and “See Me At My Worst” by notalwaysweak (http://archiveofourown.org/works/8743996). Go read, they’re great!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course he would tinker with something... I like how this fandom has unanimously decided that Percy is the subbiest sub that ever subbed. I’m on board with that. Poem passages are translations from Hebrew of The Song of Songs, found here: http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt3001.htm. Illustrations, well, Kama Sutra comes close of course.

He works on it for quite a long time before trying it out. With the guns and arrows and all the other toys and trinkets, there is always the possibility that something may go wrong, that he may join Victor in losing a hand, or Vax in losing a toe, or worse. This item, however… if it malfunctions, he would lose something that even Pike may not be able to regrow, if he even mustered the courage to ask her for help before bleeding out.

Best to be really, really, REALLY certain.

Finally, he decides that it’s done, that he can improve it no more without testing. Yeah. That’ll do. That’ll do just fine.

Percy tries it out one night when he’s absolutely, positively sure that he’s alone. Grog and Scanlan are out whoring, Pike is taking a short sabbatical at the temple of Serenrae in Vasselheim, Vex and Keyleth took Trinket out to sleep in the forest and Vax is in Whitestone, tutoring Kynan. The keep is empty bar the staff and guards, and Percy has instructed them that he’ll be working on something very explosive and shouldn’t be disturbed with anything less than a Tarrasque.

The act itself is not the thing, really, even if he always feels somewhat self-conscious, especially when thinking of himself doing it. And perish the thought of speaking of it in polite company! No, it’s the… device. He knows of the various toys that people use, of course. (One memorable evening Scanlan had shown them his collection. Percy had blushed, and muttered. Vex had taken NOTES, grinning at him the whole time.) But Percy himself has always kept to the simpler side of things. Using toys has somehow felt… well, gauche.

But curiosity killed the cat, and satisfaction brought it back, as they say. You can’t tinker and experiment this long and not, well, get ideas. And Percy has always had a surfeit of ideas. So now it’s done, he’s alone, and it’s time.

Well.

Her starts as he usually does, by laying fully clothed on his bed, propped up on pillows, with a book in his off-hand. He still remembers the day he found it in the library at Whitestone. The sheer, visceral embarrassment, the excitement, the flight to his room. The frantic hiding of it when his sister came in to ask him something. This book is not the original, of course. He left that one behind, together with everything else, when he fled. This one he found in a used book shop, immediately snatching it from the shelf and paying the proprietor double its value.

The book has beautiful illustrations of various persons in various positions, interspersed with poems about love. He has a couple of favourite sections. They show pictures of people, manly men, kneeling, bound, adoring, in supplication to women, on leashes, in chains.

He scans the pictures lovingly, caressing his cock through his breeches. Reading the passages ( _How beautiful are thy steps in sandals, O prince's daughter! The roundings of thy thighs are like the links of a chain, the work of the hands of a skilled workman.)_ he undoes the lacings, taking his time, going slowly. His cock, already hard, juts from his breeches. He fondles it, toys with it, as he flips to the next page with his thumb.

Aaaah. This is the favourite part.

The picture is intricate, lovingly painted. It depicts a man, chained to a table, legs drawn up towards his torso with ropes. A woman stands between his legs, working his cock with one hand, the other playing with his ass. The woman is lithe, with long dark hair. It’s all too easy to imagine a few feathers in her hair, that satisfied smirk on her face.

Percy bites his lower lips and strokes his cock faster, harder. He imagines how it would feel, with her hands tying him, her will deciding his pleasure ( _Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a gazelle or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices._ ), her mouth and tongue and fingers on his most intimate parts –

He feels the precum make his hand slick, and paces himself. Wait, wait; there’s an experiment to be conducted here. He gets up, removes all his clothes and folds them neatly over a chair. Another log on the fire, a kettle of water to boil for afterwards. Then he plumps up the pillows and sits back against the headboard, book by his side.

The device fits comfortably in his hand. There are no electrical components, no gunpowder (perish the thought!), just a clever combination of matted metal and rubber. It hinges on the side, opening to reveal the bumpy ridges of the interior. When closed, it fits neatly over his cock (and getting the perfect mould done was an experience in itself) and locks with two unassuming clasps, easy to open should the need arise. As soon as it’s safely closed, he turns a small knob on the base. The tiny ratchet inside tightens one, two steps, the intricate mechanism inside the metal creating a comfortable vacuum.

He licks his lips nervously. His hands shake slightly. Time to try it out.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

It’s even better than he imagined it would be.

He slides the contraption slowly up and down his shaft. It envelops him, the bumps and ridges massaging and caressing. He sits up and grips the book tighter. The images dance and blur ( _Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy mouth is comely; thy temples are like a pomegranate split open behind thy veil._ ) as he half-closes his eyes and grinds his teeth. The sensation is not exactly like fucking, it’s close, but something other – mechanical, yes, constricting, unyielding in a way he hasn’t felt before.

The book falls from his hand. Oh, fuck, what if he built – what if he built a machine that she could use – something that held him and fucked him and she decided how and how much and when he could come – which hole, which position, all her, her will…

His teeth clenches at the thought and he quickens his pace.

Stroke, stroke – slip; Oh for the love of…! Dammit! He scrambles to open the device again, letting the pressure out, reattaching it – all right, right, so you have to level the strokes, maybe the next model should be longer to accommodate for this – adjusts the vacuum again and gets back into the rhythm. He pumps harder, closing his eyes again, watching the images dance before his eyes.

\- what if, what if, if she put him there, strapped down, unable to move, unable to protest, and then brought the others in –

\- the Heir to Whitestone, Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III, brought so low, reduced to a toy for their pleasure –

\- using him, filling him up, denying him release, all of Vox Machina enjoying their plaything until he’s begging them, begging them to let him come –

\- his hand tightens on the pages of the book beside him, almost ripping them ( _Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thine eyes are as doves._ ) –

With an exhale that is almost a sob, Percy comes.

He falls back against the pillows, panting. Ha. Hah. Heh. It worked. He made it work, damn it all! He resists the urge to punch the air. Instead, he gently releases the pressure on the device and slides it off, making sure to keep the opening upwards. Gently, he puts the book away in its proper place on the bookshelf. He cleans himself off thoroughly with a wet towel, drying out momentarily before the fire. Then he cleans and oils the contraption, putting it in a box, which he stashes safely (and secretly, for now) in a drawer.

Revelling in the double satisfaction of a job well done and, well, a job well done, Percy settles down beneath the covers with a small volume of treatises on the extraction of nitre from the dung of various magical beasts. Within five minutes, he sleeps.

( _And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine, that glideth down smoothly for my beloved, moving gently the lips of those that are asleep._ )


	2. Keyleth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurrah for fumbly exploration and hairy cunts!

She’s always been, you know, shy? With these things? Like… yeah. Sure, other people do this, yeah, and they like it. But Keyleth is, you know…

Shy.

How do you even, like, start?

The question comes up one late night in the mansion, after a couple bottles of Courage and a long bath. Vex and Keyleth are the last ones, finishing up the bottle, just comfortably drunk and giggling over nothing and everything. The topic is all over the place, but settles, finally (as it so often does in these situations) on sex. Blushing, stuttering, she asks Vex if she’s ever… you know… touched herself? Down there?

Keyleth instantly loses all courage as Vex bursts into inebriated laughter, slopping wine and water all over the sides of the bath. When she moves to leave, however, Vex pulls her back down with a firm but gentle tug and starts talking.

Keyleth learns a LOT that evening. About spots here, and there, and the clitoris, and toys, and fingers, and enough that she feels dazed for a day afterwards. She doesn’t try it immediately, but slowly, carefully, she starts experimenting. Always, always blushing, almost hiding herself in her other hand.

After a while she gets bolder. Tonight, she’ll try something new.

She has a small mirror that she mostly uses for getting her headpieces on straight. It’s finely wrought, with vines circling the rim. Keyleth sits down on a pillow on the floor, dressed in a night robe of dark forest green and autumn russet. She doesn’t like to be naked when she’s not in the bath – just something, a layer between her and the world, gives so much comfort.

She sits cross-legged, biting her lip, trying to relax. She picks up the mirror and puts it against her legs to prop it up – she fumbles with it, it falls, she catches it. Phew. She reaches for a pillow and uses that instead. When the pillow and the mirror are secure, she relaxes again and parts the robe to look at her body. She knows that some people ( _Vax, Vax, Vax_ ) find her attractive. Her self-conscious mind notices her gangly legs, freckled nose, broad lips, small breasts, big, dirty feet. Quickly, she pulls away from the rest of herself ( _that’s for another time, that’s another anxiety, not now_ ) and focuses on her crotch.

Okay. Okay. O-kay.

Blushing like a wildfire, she lets her hands rest on her pubic mound. The hair is a darker shade of red than her hair, and more wiry. It curls between her legs, dusting the inside of her upper thighs and her lower abdomen, and leaves a narrow trail up to her navel. She strokes it, gently, enjoying the feeling of it on her hands. She’s heard of people who shave themselves, but she’s never considered it herself – letting a blade near there? She shudders.

She lets her fingers slip down and inside, parting her outer labia to look inside. There is no hair here, only pink, soft, wet skin. The inner labia nestle there like folded petals. She strokes them, timidly, feeling the wetness spread. The blood rushes to the folds, turning them a vivid pink. She giggles; it looks almost like a flower! Oh, oooooh… that’s why people say, oh, right. Then up to the clit, nudging it, pushing it up, down – this, this she’s done before.

She glides her hand down to the vagina, circles the opening, carefully feels inside. One finger in, two, gently feeling, probing. She’s surprised at the way she can almost trap her fingers in there – there are so many muscles! She tries again – Oh! Okay, wow! – can you do this with, with, with someone else? She clenches again, rhythmically, imagining how it would feel to do this to somebody else ( _Vax, Vax, Vax_ ). She pushes inwards, watching her fingers disappear into the warm, dark wetness. She curls them (like Vex told her) and gasps.

Oh! There, okay, wow! She curls again, rubbing, sucking at her lower lip. Its’s good, but can you do two things at the same time? She puts two fingers to her clit again, circles it, looking at it in the mirror –

Okay, that’s silly, you need to sorta place your hand – okay, there might be something to this toy business... She giggles and rubs her clit again.

It’s bigger! She looks closer, using both hands – yes! It is! Wow! Vex said it would happen! It looks almost like a tiny – yeah, um, cool… she tugs gently at the clit with her fingertips, stroking it between thumb and forefinger. Ooooh… that’s so nice.

She looks at the slick little thing in the mirror, echoing the motions she once saw Vax make as she took her clothes off before… yeah. Yeah. She strokes, circles again, rubs the tip. What would it feel like to let him, um, to let him do this? What if he, he, what if he licked her there? What if he sucked it, let his tongue run up and down, in circles, teasing it…?

Her fingers curl inside her again as her other hand quickly, quickly strokes the clit, tugs at it. What if, ah, what if it were his hand, doing this, inside her, what if she tightens like that, on him, ah, and he sucks, and licks, and - 

Eyes open, mouth open, gasping for air – ah, ah, ah! – Keyleth comes.

She sits dazed. She almost falls over, but manages to support herself. After a few minutes, she gets up on wobbly legs. She wipes her hands off with a towel and puts the mirror away on her dressing table. Then, legs more steady, she pads down to the baths. She steps silently like a cat, robe tightly drawn around her. She’s self-conscious again, but slightly less so than before.

In the bath, Keyleth relaxes, and thinks about flowers.


	3. Grog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickie, with some cock and ball torture. No angst, just a nice date with Rosie Palms.

Sometimes, yer not up for bein’ with lotsa people when you need to get yer rocks off, right? Sometimes you just need to relax a bit, or yer coin’s dried up, or no-one in yer party wants to fuck just today. So yeah, sometimes you just gotta wank.

After a long day, Grog chucks his armour in a corner, drops his leathers on the bed and plops down in the massive, sturdy, fluffy armchair by the fire. He throws one leg over one armrest and fondles his cock and balls. Yeah. That’s the spot.

Grog grips his cock and gives it a few gentle tugs and slaps, waking it up. He thinks of nothing at all to begin with, just stares into the fire, enjoying the sensation. Long, tight strokes, letting the foreskin glide over the head, pulling at it, stretching it. The other hand grips his hairless balls tightly, giving them small squeezes and pulls. That’s good, that is, feelin’ ‘em getting a bit of a workout. He slaps his ballsack harder and quickens the strokes.

Images come to him, one, two, three –

\- fighting, always fighting, beating Kevdak into the ground –

\- slamming the Titanstone Knuckles together, feeling their strength flow into me –

\- the rage, the rage is so close I can taste the iron on my tongue -

He busts his balls firmly with his knuckles, revelling in the impact and the ache it leaves. The ache travels up his shaft like lightning, making him rock hard. Another tap, and a sharp tug.

More images, flashes, one fantasy after the other. Fucking yes, now, yeah, he grinds his teeth and quickens the pace. One more firm knock to the ballsack.

\- three fingers into Vax, licking his neck, feeling him clenching –

\- Kima, her grinning face, nipping me, slapping my dick, straddling it, riding me –

\- bust-

\- punching, punching Kern the Hammer, then gripping him, forcing him down, kissing him, biting his lip, gripping his ass, he grabs my dick, he sucks it, I pull his hair –

\- slap -

Closer now, the images change. Softer, gentler, they all come to him, touching, caressing. Pike, her hands on him, kissing, stroking. He pumps his hand, releasing his balls, gripping his knee –

\- Percy, sucking me off –

\- Vex, riding me –

\- Scanlan, his small hand all the way inside my ass –

\- Vax, kissing my chest and throat –

\- Keyleth, her hands firmly gripping my cock –

\- Tiberius, his claws gently raking my back –

\- they hold me, caress me, all around me -

\- all, all of them, I need all of them -

It’s enough to push him over the edge. Head thrown back, one hand tugging at his balls, growling with pleasure, Grog comes.

He sits for a while, toying with the cooling cum pooling on his stomach. Then, he wipes himself off with a rag, puts his leathers on again and heads for the kitchen. He’s hungry for chicken and company both.


	4. Tiberius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two guesses as to who Tiberius jerks off to. No, not himself, but good guess.

Tiberius gets his moods. He gets grumpy, snarly, scales itching, tail twitching. He argues with everybody, doesn’t eat, hardly sleeps. Usually, after two or three days of this, the rest of Vox Machina kindly suggest to him that he might want to go down to the sand pit and take care of things.

He grabs a chicken and some fruit from the kitchen and heads down to the basement, fuming. This state of affairs irritates him no end. He feels uncivilised, like a peasant with no say in things. One really shouldn’t have to be subject to this kind of base poppycock! Nature, or the gods, or whomever, really should have done a better job than, than this! He stomps down the last steps and into a room side by side with the baths his soft and scale-less companions frequent. Angrily he throws his staff to one end of the room and this clothes to the other. With an effort of willpower he refrains from throwing his glasses, instead putting them on the edge of the sandpit that dominates the room. He snarls and jumps in.

The coarse sand feels wonderful against his hot, itching scales. Twisting, turning, scratching, feeling silly (the worst kind of feeling) but still enjoying it immensely, bits and pieces of his scales and skin fall off, revealing new, shiny, almost glistening scales underneath. Finally, with a last vigorous scrubbing of the tail and snout, he’s free of the clinging, milky-white old hide. Relieved, he shakes himself off, pulls his robe back on, and sits down on a bench at the edge of the pit. He scarfs down the meal he brought, ravenous as always after a few days of fasting. Undignified.

Back up in his room, he puts his clothes out to be laundered, and then locks the door. He goes over to the full-length mirror in the corner and contemplates the iridescent sheen of his new scales. They always have a bright sheen, like liquid red gold, when they’re new. He sighs. They’ll fade. They always do. He sits down in his chair by the fire, picks up a scroll, sets it down again.

Sitting naked, deep in thought, idly scratching a stray piece of molting ( _hmpf. badly thought out_ ), his hands drift downwards to the fold between his legs. There’s a piece there too that hasn’t quite dislodged. The careful movement of his claws removes the piece, and remains there after carelessly tossing it to the ground. Slowly, lazily, the claws scratch the sides of the folds, releasing the cock inside. He grips himself just as lazily, almost dreamily. His thoughts drift where they always do – to Allura. He imagines her hand, her mouth, her smile. He imagines her sitting beside him, a cup of tea in hand. They chat amiably. He shows her his best cantrips, she consults him on her latest enchanting project. His hand searches for hers on top of the cake-laden tea table. He looks her deep in the eyes and confesses his love, verbose and well-articulated as always. She blushes and looks down at her cup.

Then, the cup falls to the ground and shatters as she pounces, pinning him to the chair, a hand at his throat, her mouth smirking.

_(Oh, little lizard. You come here, bleating your empty platitudes, thinking to woo me? I think not, dragonborn. You don’t deserve me. You deserve PUNISHMENT.)_

He sits up straight on the chair, willing a magehand into existence. He picks up a length of rope that has been laying coiled under the bed, and uses the magehand to tie himself up. The rope loops around him, around the chair; the knots almost tie themselves ( _expertly done, really, practice makes perfect_ ) as he half-closes his eyes, imagining her doing it. When he’s securely bound, he closes his eyes fully, letting the magehand take hold of his cock.

_(There, now. Now you’re mine.)_

He imagines her walking around him, adjusting the ropes.

_(How are you feeling, my little lizard? Are you comfortable? Oh, we can’t have that, can we.)_

He tugs on a rope-end which loops over his throat, constricting the airflow. The scratchy rope irritates his sensitive new scales, adding to the sensation.

_(You breathe at my leisure. You receive pleasure at my leisure. Isn’t that right, my little sorcerer?)_

“Y-yes, yes…” he croaks, hoarse and horny. His cock twitches in time with her words. The magehand glides up and down the shaft, then releases.

_(And right now my pleasure is to NOT let you receive it.)_

The magehand slaps him, once, twice, across each side of his snout. He growls quietly.

_(What?)_

“Please…” The word is barely audible. The magehand whips around and jerks his head up.

_(Speak up, Tiberius. I won’t have you mumbling.)_

“Please. Please, I need…” His eyes are still shut tight. In his mind’s eye, she stands before him, fully clothed, her hand firmly clasped under his chin. Her eyes shine, her fair hair crackles with arcane energy. She’s magnificent. “I need you. I’ve needed you since I first saw you.”

_(And do you think you deserve me?)_

The magehand releases his chin, letting it fall back towards the rope around his throat. He gurgles. He’s so hard his entire crotch aches. “No…” Of course he doesn’t. He’s nothing. She’s everything.

_(So right. Well done, Tiberius. God boy.)_

He revels in her praise. He imagines her petting him, scratching his scales. The magehand falls back to his painfully hard cock. It begins stroking again. His lips draw back in a snarl of pleasure. The hand stops, and he lets out a whine of desperation.

_(You are what I say you are. You do what I say. You feel what I want you to feel. Do you understand?)_

He pants, trying to nod, but the rope holds him in place. He is reduced to his voice, subservient to her. “Yes, my lady.” The hand begins again, the sensation wringing another whine from his constricted throat. It stops, starts, keeping his orgasm at bay, teasing him, punishing him. He imagines her, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing, guiding the magehand though its motions. Her face is the sun, blinding him. Her will is the moon, guiding him through the darkness. He can do nothing but exist as she wants him to exist.

_(Good boy. You learn so fast. It’s time for a reward. Say yes if you want it.)_

“Yes… yes!” His voice is strained and raw with desire. The magehand quickens its pace. His hips try to buck, but he’s to securely bound.

( _Come for me, Tiberius. Come for me NOW._ )

Hissing, straining against the ropes, deliciously, joyfully unable to move, to be in control, Tiberius comes.

Spent, panting, he uses the magehand to untie the knots. He snaps his claws – Prestidigitation! – and the cum vanishes from his belly and from the chair. The rope coils up and is placed under the bed again. He fussily puts everything in order, chair, staff, throws stray pieces of molt into the fire. When everything is arranged and neat again, he stretches, flexing his back, whipping his tail back and forth, then yawns. He climbs into his neatly made bed and falls asleep almost instantly, calm and content.


	5. Pike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nautical naughty size queen Pike, because of the reason.

Pike likes to be comfortable. It feels more sinful that way. That little extra, that small comfort she so rarely allows herself. Well, for a start, anyway. It’s good to, you know, limber up a bit. Get ready.

She starts by taking a bath, slowly soaping herself in. She takes her time, washing her hair with languorous motions, enjoying the feeling of her fingers on her scalp. Her hands move over her body, lightly stroking, feeling for aches and pains. She winces at the twinges in her back, and releases a small burst of divine energy from her palms, soothing and healing.

Sinful.

She stretches, luxuriant, and lets her hands wander down between her legs, stroking, caressing. She finds the clit and plays with it, then cups the whole mound and presses up, down, up, down. Her strong legs brace against the bottom of the tub, lifting her slightly over the water. She watches her hands glide, massaging the vulva. The hair is as platinum white as on the rest of her body, the soft curls glittering with droplets of water. She sinks down again, smiling, curling up slightly to reach better.

She puts two fingers in, then three, then four, pushing them in and out rapidly, using the other hand to tease the clit. It’s not joyless by any means, but it’s a prelude, a means to an end, and what an end it will be. She hums to herself, snatches of a sailor’s shanty, pushing deep, riding the softly swelling wave until it crashes, dragging her under and up. She pants, feeling the lapping of the receding wave as she gently rubs it out.

Another bucket of warm water streams over her muscular body, washing away the suds and dirt of the bathwater. She steps out and dries herself off with a towel, wringing the excess water out of her hair. She inspects her nails and the patches of hardened skin where her armoured gloves chafe when she grips her mace. They stopped bleeding long ago, but the blood spent is still remembered, another small offering among so, so many.

When she feels clean and warm, she moves over to the bed. It’s soft and fluffy ( _so sinful_ ) and she snuggles down beneath the covers, making a little cave for herself for a moment. Then, she reaches for the plaything on the bed stand.

Pike’s favourite toy comes from a very small, very discreet store in the Cloudtop District of Emon that produces novelty items for the discerning customer, no questions asked. Being of gnomish stature, Pike was fortunate enough not to have to dish out extra for what she wanted, but still chose a model as lifelike as possible. The clerk, very knowledgeable, did not raise an eyebrow at the purchase but insisted that she buy a bottle of their best lube to go with it.

The toy is average for a human, and massive for a gnome. Just as she likes it. Pike wondered, in the beginning, where this penchant for size came from. But as with so many other things in her life, she has decided that sometimes, things don’t need answers to be good, or enjoyable. Sometimes you’re confused, sometimes you’re mystified. But joy is joy, and enjoyment is enjoyment, and as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, why not take pleasure where you find it?

She starts by letting the thick oil dribble over the toy, rubbing it, making it slick and wet. She giggles in anticipation and gives it a quick lick, then blushes at her own silliness. Then, she lays back against the soft pillows and pulls the cover over her again. The warmth helps her relax, and Serenrae, she’ll need it.

She uses the toy to tease her now-sensitive clit, letting the head rub in circles around and over it. Then she moves it up and down, letting the thick oil spread all over. Her other hand follows suit, teasing the labia, pulling on the long, slick folds. Her cunt is wet and warm as she guides the toy inside, slowly, slowly.

She’s hungry for it, a sucking, aching void inside her, longing to be filled. The greedy feeling makes it better, makes her feel wanton, sinful. She pushes, gingerly – a bit more oil – and moves the tip of the head in. She pauses, forcing herself to relax completely, despite the want and anticipation. Then, a bit more, out, in – the pleasure makes her more slick, eases the toy in, the ridges of the head slips inside the opening – ooooh, yes, goddess, yes.

Inside, still going slow, but she’s done it before, and she’s so ready, oh so ready. All the way inside. It fills her completely, from stem to stern, stretching her almost to the point of pain but not beyond ( _that’s for other times_ ). She pulls it out, slowly, then back in, slowly. Patience, patience. The massive, rigid toy glides over that spot that electrifies her – there is no subtlety here, no ambiguity. There is no part of her that can hide. She laughs out loud from the mix of sensations.

She starts going faster, the toy gliding, pushing, reaching every inch. Both hands guide it as she angles it to go harder at the back of her, and she feels like it’s not only in her cunt, but in her ass at the same time. She gasps. The almost unbearable intensity pushes coherent thought from her mind, but memories flood in instead.

_A ship on the wave. She sits on the bowsprit, knees locked tight against the bucking wood. The salt spray hits her face, the sun making a thousand tiny rainbows all around her. Her shipmates are shouting and swearing behind her. She laughs, and laughs, and laughs._

_She’s bleeding from the nose, and the blood drips down on her mace. She grips it tighter, and charges again. Grog grins. I knew yeh had it in ya, monstah! They spar, and laugh, and spar again._

_Snatches of songs from now and then, rising and falling like the waves. Cups of ale, a roaring fireplace, plans and memories._

She grips the toy hard with one hand and lets the other find her clit. She cups it again, using the middle two fingers to press and glide over the spot. Her head falls back and she grinds her teeth.

_The warm embrace of her friends after being separated for so long. Each of them hugging her, shouting her name, Grog hoisting her high in the air. Happy faces, all of them here._

_The Goddess, oh, the Goddess, her divine hand smashing through the clouds, beating the white dragon to the ground. The love, the eternal love, the love that she tries so hard to earn and that motivates her to be holy, to be better than her ancestors._

_If this be sin, then I will sin for them a thousand times and laugh…_

\- oh Sarenrae, my goddess, I’m YOUR monster -

Her muscles grip the toy so hard she swears she must be leaving dents in it. Her whole body goes rigid, twitching, and with a gasp, Pike comes a second time.

She lies back, panting, and slowly slides the toy out. It leaves an uncomfortable emptiness behind, but after using the commode and washing off in the last bucket of water, she feels back to normal.

She takes a couple of pillows and blankets from the bed and drags them over to the side of the fire, building a nest. She sits down, gets comfy, and starts brushing out her hair, humming quietly. She smiles.

Joy is joy, and joy is blessed.


	6. Vax'ildan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for bathjerking with our favourite feathery bisexual angstbucket!

He’s always liked to touch himself only when he’s bathing. Doing it anywhere else feels dirty. He knows, yeah, he knows it’s okay, mentally he knows – but still, after all these years, the shame clings, like a stubborn oil stain on a favourite garment. This is not a what the son of an ambassador does. But fuck them. He’ll do whatever the fuck he wants.

He wearily undresses in one of the private – and as luck would have it, lockable – rooms of the bath section of the high-end tavern they’re currently patronising. The room is large and warm. The floor is paved with shale slabs of uneven size, cleverly arranged in an intricate puzzle pattern. Iron grates are nested in each corner, allowing excess water to drain out. A row of small wooden pails stands underneath two pipes that jut from the stone wall. A low stool stands beside it with freshly laundered towels on top.

In the centre of the room, a steaming bath has been filled. A row of bottles on a sideboard release a mix of delicate and soothing smells. One large glass jar has what looks like small rose-coloured crystals inside. He sniffs them, but detects no overtones of anything untoward, so he grabs a handful and tosses it in. The crystals slowly melt, giving the bath a slightly pink tint and a pleasant scent of roses.

He slides slowly into the bath, bit by bit. Every time the hot water reaches a sore spot, he winces, but continues. When he’s fully submerged, he slides down under the water, letting his long, black hair float on the surface. He holds his breath, eyes closed. He tries to calm his beating heart, relax his muscles. When he’s out of air, he stays under for just a while longer, feeling the pulse slow, slow. Then, up, a gasp. He smooths his hair back and relaxes back against the edge. For a long while he just floats, eyes still closed, not moving, just listening to the water lapping against the sides of the tub.

He puts one leg up on the edge of the tub. A short cantrip cleans him out (thanks for the tip, Gilmore, you beautiful bastard, it makes it all so much easier). He takes the slightly curved black glass plug and oils it up. Dipping his fingers in the oil, he gently massages the opening, putting some pressure on it, slowly opening himself up. One finger goes in, one knuckle, then two. Another finger, lightly scissoring. Then he pushes the plug in, sighing softly when it slides into place, its flared base resting outside, holding it there.

He closes his eyes, bracing one foot against the edge of the tub. One hand is on his cock, the other on the base of the plug. Fuck it, this is good. This is what he aches after when the deeds get too dark, when he can’t do anything else, when his limbs are like lead and his thoughts are slow as the grindings of the gears of the universe. No more reality, only solace in fantasy.

He strokes himself slowly and lets the other hand roam around freely. He tugs on his nipples, pinching them hard; then on to the insides of the thighs, the buttocks, the sides of his stomach. He sifts through scenarios in his head – today he wants something indulgent, something reassuring. There’s been too much questioning, too many changes, too many hasty, forced decisions. He feels like a fucking garbage dump, soiled, covered with a layer of shit that is not Vax’ildan. So, eyes closed, he summons up his favourite fantasies.

_He imagines himself on his stomach, laying relaxed and waiting. He can hear their voices behind him. “Oh my, Vax’ildan. What a pretty picture you make.” “Vax… I… you’re so beautiful.” He smiles. They embrace him from each side of the bed - Shaun kissing his shoulders, his back, his ass; Keyleth combing her fingers through his hair and stroking his neck. “We’re going to take good care of you, beautiful boy.” “Vax… I want you so badly.”_

_They flip him over, using their four hands to grip and handle him. Keyleth is wearing a cock secured to her hips by straps of red leather, Shaun in a cloth-of-gold robe open in the front, nothing underneath. He’s so hard he’s aching. They are both so fucking beautiful – the dark, earthy tones of Shaun, and the bright, fiery tones of Keyleth. They kiss in front of him, Shaun expertly using his tongue on Keyleth and Keyleth gripping his buttocks with feral lust. Then they break off, and focus their attention on him._

_They work in tandem, riling him up, kissing, touching, licking, biting – they mark him as their own, let him know he is wanted, oh so wanted. Keyleth moves down between his legs, leaving claw marks on the sensitive inner thighs and massaging his ass cheeks. Shaun is sucking him, his tongue running up and down the shaft. “The taste of you, my handsome Vax’ildan…” One hand grips him, holding his cock firmly; the other pushes into his mouth. Vax sucks the long fingers greedily. He loses them again when Shaun moves up behind Keyleth, oiling up both his own hard cock and her glass one._

_Keyleth opens him and leans over him, their mouths locking in a long kiss as she slides into him. She shudders as Shaun’s oil-slick fingers find her clit. When she begins moving in and out of Vax, Shaun pushes into her, making her moan. Keyleth is grinding into him, fucking him silly. Her slim hands are on his hips, her hair wild, and she’s so fucking beautiful. Shaun is driving into her, pushing her strokes deep into Vax, his hands on her breasts and his white teeth at her throat. They move as one being, locked in a tight embrace._

Vax moans and shifts his pace. He adds some oil to his cock and moves both his feet down into the tub, drawing the plug in tighter. He digs his nails into his chest – the pain is lovely, distracting. His hand tightens, making deep, slow strokes that cover the entire length of his cock.

_He’s on his elbows and knees, bracing himself for what’s to come. Scanlan is behind him on the soft floor, fondling his ass and running his small, long-fingered bard’s hands up and down his thighs. He watches the others tumble and fuck around him. The joy of seeing them so safe, so happy, is as strong as his need for them._

(the fantasy fades for a second as he sobs – no, fuck it, I don’t want that right now)

_Grog comes up to him, hunkers down and hooks a finger under Vax’ chin, angling it upwards. “Hey, rogue. How about you suck my dick right now, yeah?” The grin is cocksure but the tone is mild. Vax grins back and grabs Grog’s beard, pulling him down onto the floor. The goliath laughs and sits back expectantly. “Share and share alike, eh?” Scanlan laughs and adjusts himself to Vax’ new position. As Vax goes to town on Grog’s massive cock, the gnome resumes his work._

_Grog grunts as Vax licks him, nipping and tugging at his balls. He takes as much of Grog as he can, circling the head and running one thumb up and down the shaft. He wraps his teeth and lets it glide down his throat. The goliath groans. Vax grips the ball tight with one hand and sucks hard, running his tongue around the edge of the foreskin._

_Scanlan slips one finger in, the slender digit moving easily inside. After a while he does one more, curling them down towards the sweet spot. Vax moans and grips the base of Grog’s cock tighter. Scanlan laughs and curls his fingers again. “Patience, Feathers. I’m getting there.” He adds another two fingers in quick succession, making Vax groan and squirm._

_Suddenly, Grog grips him tight, flipping him over and pins him to his chest. “Come on, Scanlan. I wanna see his face when he cums.” Scanlan grins and adjusts again. “Ready, flyboy?” He moves his fingers in and out, gently kissing Vax’ stomach. “Yes, fuck, do it!” Scanlan laughs at Vax’ exasperated tones and adds the thumb. Vax lets out a low cry as Scanlan’s small hand moves into him and fills him to the brim._

_Grog holds him tight while Scanlan moves in and out, occasionally flexing his fingers as Vax moans and tries to buck. “Hey, Vax. Yer pretty when yeh fall apart.” Vax can’t reply – the feeling is too intense – he can only moan in ecstasy as Grog takes his cock in one hand and starts jerking him off. The goliath and the gnome both laugh as the usually so verbose rogue is speechless with pleasure._

Vax quickens his strokes and shifts slightly, allowing the plug to reach deeper, pushing relentlessly on his prostate. He groans and gasps. His other hand is on his nipple again, tugging, pinching – the mild pain sends pulses of pleasure up and down his spine. The hand moves to the thigh, nails digging in, drawing blood that mingles with the rose-scented water. He pumps his fist and clenches his teeth.

 (the water splashes out on the floor, who the FUCK cares, who the fuck)

Without a sound, teeth grinding, eyes screwed shut, trembling, Vax’ildan comes.

He lies panting for a long while. Evantually, he pulls the plug out, washing it off in the water and tossing it over by his clothes. Then, he gets out of the bath, a little unsteadily. He goes over to the low stool and sits down on it, legs crossed in front of him. He fills one of the wooden pails with warm water from one of the pipes in the wall. Then, he dumps the water over himself. Then, another pail. Another, and another. He lets the warm water flow over his head, arms, legs. With each pail, he feels cleaner, calmer. He loses track of the time. The floor grows wetter and wetter still. Finally, he sets the pail down. He dries his hair, wraps a clean robe around him and gathers his clothes. Then, he leaves. When he opens the door there is laughter in the corridor – someone shouts his name, grabs his hand, draws him into a casual hug. The door closes behind him.

The dirty bathwater slowly cools in the tub, and the excess water on the floor trickles down the grating, flowing down and away.


	7. Vex'ahlia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy Vexy is 100% mindfulness – all a girl needs is herself.

Vex knows what she likes. She’s tried many things with many people, and she’s open to trying more. Sex is something she enjoys and she takes pride in her skill at it. But twirling the pearl – that’s mostly been utilitarian for her. She gets herself off quickly, efficiently, to relax. In the bath, in the bed, a quickie before a fight – it’s useful and nice. But at times the treats herself to something longer.

It’s one of those glorious few calm days when they have nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one and nothing to kill. The rest have gone off on their own, she’s unsure where, except that Kiki is in the garden, trying to convince the slugs to leave her herbs alone. Vex has been doing this and that – cleaning armour, playing with Trinket, reading, some archery practice. Now, it’s nearing late afternoon, and she’s bored.

She tells Trinket to go play with Kiki for a while. He grudgingly accepts but drags his paws to show his unhappiness. He brightens up considerably when she reminds him that Kiki might need help with digging – she MIGHT, and surely, showers of fresh earth would help with getting rid of the slugs too? When the bear has rounded the corner, she closes the door and quickly sheds her clothes, letting them fall where they may.

She’s never been one for long foreplay, even now. She unceremoniously plops down on her bed, belly down. She puts a hand down between her legs and lets it slip between the folds, resting on the clit, flicking it playfully. She rests on her other elbow and considers her option. She’s amassed a small collection of toys over the years – some for playing alone, some for two or more. Slowly waking her cunt up, she bites her lower lip and tries to decide what she’s in the mood for. Butt toy? Nah, not today. A dick? Not to begin with. Hmmmm…

She smiles, removes her hand from her vulva, and grabs a small redwood box off of the bed. Sitting cross-legged, she opens the box. It’s simple but well made, with inlays of black and white woods. Inside, resting on a velvet pillow, are two brushed steel balls, slightly smaller than an inch in diameter. She takes them out and lets them roll around in her hand. They are cleverly made – hollow, with a second ball inside.

She sits up on her knees and grabs a bottle from the array of toys. She puts some of the oil inside on the balls, then, still on her knees, she takes the first and puts it in her vagina. Using her muscles, she grips it and feels it slowly pull upwards. When the first is secure, the other goes in. The first time she did this, they fell out multiple times – now, she sometimes wears them the whole day. Those days usually end with her pouncing on Percy and fiercely grinding out her pent-up frustrations on top of him.

When the balls are securely inside, she rises from the bed and stands on the floor, tensing and relaxing, making the balls slowly glide up and down inside her. The soft movement of the unyielding metal is like nothing else – this is her, her body, finding its own pleasure from its own strength. She takes a couple of slow steps, twirls, stretches, finding all the diverse ways the balls and her muscles interact.

As the balls move slowly inside her, she comes to a halt in front of a mirror, and regards her body. Small tits, strong arms, muscled back; long hair, bow-legged, rounded ass. She lifts her arms above her head and smiles. She lets her arms fall and caresses her breasts, pinches at the nipples, pulling them out and away from the body, lifts one breast up and licks it. She lets it fall, circles the areola once, twice. Then she lets her fingers trail down to her stomach, making feather-light touches on the skin that electrify it, sending shivers up her spine. Then she digs in and drags her fingers across her skin, revelling in the feeling of her jagged, uneven nails (and how her father admonished her for chewing on them, no, Vex’ahlia, that’s so _unladylike_ ) as they leave parallel lines across her abdomen. She cups her ass, kneads and digs her nails in, gasping at the pain. A slap, two, three. She pinches the soft inside of her thighs, leaving bright red marks all the way down to her knees. Her vagina flexes at each touch, caressing the heavy balls and sending shockwaves through her.

The first orgasm makes her legs wobbly, so she moves to the bed again. She stands on her knees on top of the covers, rocking her hips back and forth, slowly at first. The balls move, massaging her insides. As she rocks, she tugs at her long inner labia, now slick with oil and cum. She uses both hands, one to tickle and press on the clit and the other to comb the labia between her fingers. One finger circles the clit, left to right, right to left. The movement of her hips guides the other hand between the folds, pressing hard against the sensitive muscles and nerves, rubbing inside and outside. She shudders – _fucknuggets and piss!_ – the balls jostle and she loses her rhythm – again, again, she finds the right pace. One hand leaves the cunt and digs into her thigh, squeezing it, leaving marks that will be kissed better later. Rubbing on the clit, she rocks harder, breathes heavier, clenches her teeth and soars, soars, soars.

She unclenches and lets the balls fall out on the covers. She fumbles for a toy (anything, fuck, anything long), sits up on her knees and nearly shoves it inside. She rides it, holds it, one hand on her clit, riding upwards, upwards on the last high wave -

– _shit mother bitch balls cunt_ –

With a string of curse words, Vex comes for the last time. She shudders and falls limp on the bed, breathing heavily. After a while she slides the toy out, gets up and stretches, grins, falls back on the bed, spread-eagled. She basks like a cat in a sunbeam.

Some call this the small death, but Vex disagrees. She’s seen death, and this is not it.

It’s like flying.


	8. Taryon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Tary, your time with us was so short. If you need a mental image for this chapter – whatever comes up when you google ”gay romance novel”. Warning: purple prose and serious smut ahead! I’ve had so much fun writing this, can you tell by the length?

Tary wakes up after a dream, achingly hard. His sleep-fuzzed thoughts drifts from place to place in a sex-themed association chain…

… his cock is, to his shame, average-sized. He’s always felt that a hero should have a mighty rod to woo the ladies with. In all the stories of that particular, ah, _subject matter_ , the hero was always hung like a horse and always bedded multiple nubile young women...

… as if he’s ever _really_ wanted to woo the ladies…

… he’s tried, sure. Even before…

… he shudders. The memory of that night always fills him with disgust. Not because of _her_ – she was nice, in her rough way, and she certainly tried to make sure he found the experience pleasurable – but because of himself. He had gone with it, contrary to the voices screaming in his head. He had allowed her to take him to all the places he didn’t want to go, and he had thought about…

… he shakes his head to clear it. No, he woke up… what had he dreamt about? He looks down. He is still erect, and the sight brings back the memory of the dream again. Oh, yes…

Tary rummages in the nightstand drawer and takes out the flash cards that Doty made for him, back when Pike wanted him to learn and remember the names of everyone in Vox Machina. It feels strange now that there was ever a time he did not know their names. The flash cards have been well thumbed during this year. Some more than others – the one bearing the likeness of Grog most of all. When Tary first saw it, he wondered briefly if he had made some mistake in Doty’s design – making the automaton embellish or misinterpret (preposterous, yes, but even the sun has its spots).  Surely the goliath couldn’t be THAT well-built?

_(During the voyage home from Vesrah, magically sped by Keyleth but still long enough for some lazy frolicking, he’d joined some of the sailors and Grog in an exciting ocean adventure: spearing the speeding fish that used the wake of the ship to travel. Trailing after the ship, hanging on to thick lengths of rope, he had found out two things: Grog, on the few occasions that he went into water, did so nude; and indeed, he was that well-built. Tary had hung on for a while longer after the others had brought their catch on board, thankful for the slight chill in the water.)_

He touches himself almost unconsciously. The details of the dream start to come back to him…

“Doty, wake up and bring out my personal journal.”

His mechanical manservant creaks to life and lumbers over to a locked cabinet. Doty picks a key from the compartment in its chest, opens the cabinet and plucks out a particular book, then brings it back to Tary.

“Thank you, Doty. Now, please re-enter energy conservation mode.”

The automaton sits down, and the glow in its eyes fade to the colour of barely stoked embers. Tary brings out a small portable writing desk and places the book atop it along with a sharpened pencil. The personal journal isn’t filled with Doty’s neat lettering, but with his own, more scribbly writing. It bears the legend “NOT FOR PUBLICATION” stamped across the front. No, it’s safe to say that Tary has never dreamt of wooing ladies. However, he _has_ dreamt – frequently, and in explicit detail – about being wooed. And each and every one of his favourite dreams, fantasies, daydreams and reveries are detailed in the journal with the huge block letters barring entrance.

Well, technically not in the journ _al_ , more truthfully in the journ _als_. The present one has a “Volume 4” embossed on the spine. The other three are back in his childhood home, behind locked and thrice-locked doors.

Tary flips through the pages, stopping briefly here and there but looking for the place where he last left off. Many of the stories in the earlier volumes concern Lawrence, of course ( _secret moonlight trysts, stolen kisses, love conquers all_ ) but as he started adventuring, the stories branched out. Here a lithe, handsome, obsidian-skinned Ank’Hareli thief, sweeping him off his feet to bed him in a tent in the desert; there, a tribal half-orc that fights him in hand-to-hand combat until the fight turns into kisses, then more. Lately, the stories have mostly concerned his close compatriots and intrepid adventuring band – Vox Machina.

_(The last one is about that newly-formed heartache - in his fantasy, that day in Percival’s workshop turned into so much more. The joking; their souls met and intertwined, they had so much in common, as if they had known each other in an earlier life. The touches; his hand on Percival’s cheek, gently removing a stain, the other man clasping his hand and kissing the palm with tenderness and fire. The tinkering; the things they could do, the inventions, the mental exertion firing their brains into an all-encompassing passionate blaze.)_

Tary finds a blank page, and grabs the pencil.

**It was a dark and stormy night, and the ship “The Noble Steed” foundered on the perilous cliffs of Barbarian Bay. Taryon Darrington waded through the waves, boldly carrying the first mate in his strong, capable arms. The young man moaned and clung to the intrepid hero’s neck. As they reached the shore, Taryon carefully lay the youth on the wet sand, gently brushing a lock of moist hair from his brow.**

**“Please, kind hero, do not leave me here alone!” the first mate gasped. “I shall surely perish from exposure, or from an attack from the horrific barbarians that roam these lands!” He clung to the adventurer’s strong arm, but Taryon gently but firmly broke his terrified grip.**

**“Courage, friend!” he said, his strong and melodious voice carrying easily over the shrieking gale. “Take shelter there, in yonder cave, until I return. No barbarians will find you there, and I shall be swift in bringing us aid.” He gripped the first mates’ forearms to bolster his spirits, and the youth nodded, albeit with a quivering to his lower lip. As the first mate hobbled towards the cave, Taryon set out towards the nearest town.**

**After traversing the jagged cliffs that separated the shore from the lands beyond, the indomitable hero came upon a road leading in the approximate direction of the town he knew lay naught but an hour away. Shortly, however, his path was blocked by a figure emerging from the crags – a hulking, brutish figure. Taryon put his hand on his sword, preparing for whatever this barbarous man had in store.**

**The barbarian was truly a giant among men. He stood easily over two metres tall, with wide shoulders to match; muscles rippling under skin as grey as thunderclouds, struck through all over with ink-black bolts of primitive design. His body was hairless save for a mighty beard that covered his lower face, adorned with pearls and trinkets. He was clad in naught but scant leathers, armour, and jewellery; the finest among them, a torque adorning his muscle-bound neck.**

**Stepping forth, the giant spoke. “Ho there, you who walks with such purpose! Know ye not that there is a toll to pass through these lands?”**

**Taryon laughed. “A toll? And what might you ask of me, I who am destitute and shipwrecked, as you can surely see? I have nothing save my wit and my weapons. The one I cannot part with, and the other I will not. Your purse will hang empty this day, I fear.”**

**The barbarous personage let his piercing, slate-grey eyes roam the full visage of Taryon’s handsome frame. A slow, hungry smile graced his lips, that in parting revealed gleaming, white teeth.**

**“All men have something to give, that I can assure you. I have taken much from many men, and you seem to me as one who could give me more than most. So, let us see if I cannot part you from your prized wit with my own weapon, wanderer.”**

Tary stops writing. His erection is making itself known, poking uncomfortably at the underside of the writing desk. He clips the pages onto the slate to keep them from sliding and grip himself in his left hand, a position perfected from long experimentation. He writes on and strokes himself as he relives and embellishes his dream.

**The noble adventurer sighed. “If that is your price for passage, I must pay it; for I walk not for my own sake, but for the poor souls shipwreck’d not far from here. Show me your weapon, then, and I will show you mine; we will do battle in any way you choose.”**

**The barbarian took three long strides, to close the distance between the two men. His mighty hand closed on the hero’s throat, stemming the airflow to naught but a trickle.**

**“Let us repair to my abode, then, my pale princeling. This weather agrees not with me, and sparring out here might rust my blade.” The grey gargantuan pointed at a yurt to the side of the road, nearly invisible as it clung to the craggy rocks, matching them in colour and shape. Swiftly, he manhandled Taryon into it, thrusting him bodily into its dusky, warm interior.**

**The barbarian did not rest on his laurels; presently, he flung his armour to the side and proceeded to undress Taryon in the same manner. When the dauntless adventurer was naked before him, he ripped his loincloth to the side, revealing a mighty member, already raised and ready. It was as grey as the rest of him, excepting the bulbous end, where it was red and beaded white at the tip.**

**“You have seen my weapon, wanderer; is your sheath a match, I wonder?” The giant gripped Taryon’s waist and pulled him close, breathing deeply, taking in his scent like a wild beast sniffing its prey. Taryon’s limbs turned to water as he felt the engorged phallus twitch as it pressed into his stomach. He swallowed and gripped the barbarian by the shoulders, pushing him back.**

**“The Gods be my witnesses that I have never backed from a fight, but your shaft is too huge for any man my stature; you will surely rend me in twain!”**

**A rumbling laugh escaped the giant’s lips. “Do not fear, wanderer - the only thing to match my weapon is my skill with it; I shall make you ready for me anon.”**

**He let his huge hand encircle Taryon’s throat once again, cutting breath and blood short to mere trickle, leaving the adventurer lightheaded. The other hand gripped Taryon’s own rod, coaxing it from flaccid to firm, aided by the lack of nourishment to the higher brain functions. All the while he placed rough, animalistic kisses and bites all over the smaller man, as if marking him as his own. After awakening Taryon’s own lust, the giant easily gripped both their pulsing poles in his one hand and rutted them against each other, smearing his juices over them both, mingling his musk and the hero’s perfume.**

**“It has been long indeed since I had such a delectable feast in my abode – I intend to savour every part of you before I sheath myself in your dark heat.”**

Tary stops again – his left hand is slick and he’s been biting on his lower lip so much it’s sore. He puts the writing aside and fetches a washcloth, drinks some water, and settles back down. He takes up his strokes again, thumbing the head and caressing the length. He keeps the cloth close between his legs. The right hand takes up the pencil again.

**The primitive presently threw him to the ground and then turned him on his stomach; splayed out on the furs on the floor of the yurt, Taryon felt like he was naught but the barbarian’s latest prey, another trophy for display. The barbarian yanked him up on all fours, grinning and licking his lips.**

**“Enough of this, just do what you must!”**

**“Oh, I intend to, princeling; you will be stretched to receive me, this I guarantee you.” With this, he drilled his blood-red tongue into Taryon’s cleft, drawing a gasp from his lips – the sensation of the brute, impossibly large inside him, made the adventurer’s loins pulse with pleasure, mingled with trepidation. The barbarian tasted him thoroughly, then replaced tongue with teasing, oily fingers.**

**With each new digit, the giant stretched Taryon open, more so than he had ever been before; the fingers, slick with oil and juices, moved deep inside him, eliciting a profound pleasure he had never experienced before this day. With torturous expertise, the brutish fiend found the spots that made him clench and moan despite himself, robbing him of all dignity and composure.**

**Finally, the barbarian placed him on his lap, giant hands nearly encircling his waist. The engorged phallus teased at Taryon’s slick, hot entrance as the huge creature placed him exactly where he wanted him; the hero himself had no say, being a mere plaything of the primitive’s lusts.**

**“Such a pretty princeling”, the giant growled. “All ready to be spitted like a suckling pig for the feast.” He licked Taryon’s neck and squeezed hard on his waist, making the adventurer gasp for air, his throbbing rod dribbling its lust onto the grey knuckles. The turgid member pressed inwards, stretching the man to his limit, sending waves of pain and pleasure up his spine.**

**“Do it then, you troglodyte”, Taryon panted. “Do it and be done!”**

**The giant laughed and bit his shoulder; then, with a mighty thrust, he speared his huge erection up into Taryon’s bowels. The hero howled in mingled pleasure and pain and beat his fists against the bulging pectorals; the fiendish gargantuan merely laughed again and started moving in earnest. Taryon dug his fingers into the grey shoulders and screamed his lust to the skies; as he looked down he could see the movement of the giant organ inside him, and the sight was enough to tip him over into a raging orgasm.**

Tary stops again, his writing hand losing its coordination completely. The book and the desk are pushed aside as he wraps his cock in the washcloth and pumps furiously, fuelled by the fantasy. Moaning loudly, Taryon comes hard into the cloth.

He lays back against the pillows and pants, coming down slowly from the heights of the orgasm.

Setting pen to paper is a catharsis of sorts - the fantasy is as spent as he is. He dries himself and throws the soiled washcloth in the bin. After his morning toilette, he feels ready to take on a new day.

“Doty, wake up.” The robotnik clanks to life and stands to what passes for attention.

“Lay out my clothes for the day. The ochra cloak, I think, and the doeskin pantaloons.” While Doty rummages around in his drawers for clothes, Tary puts the journal back in its cabinet. He’ll fill in the pencilled script with ink later. 

Before leaving, Tary picks up the well-thumbed flash card of Grog and looks at it pensively. A year has taught him much about the goliath. Enough, anyway, to know the difference between what now sits in his journal and the person he will meet at the breakfast table. With a chuckle, he puts the drawing back in the nightstand and leaves.


	9. Scanlan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me a long, long while, because I want these things to be believable in their filthiness. Scanlan just eluded me, until I finally realised why. Then it got sad.

Masturbatory fantasies don’t need to be profound. They don’t need to have rhyme or reason, explanation, ethics or morale. They don’t need to be physically possible, achievable, or even wanted other than in your mind. One thing they do need, however, is a measure of acceptance of the self and its wants.

So Scanlan… doesn’t.

When he’s randy, he fucks. Boy, does he ever.

The Meat Man screams his sexuality to the skies, broadcasts it on all bandwidths, plays the tune with the amplifier up to 11. Burt Reynolds is scandalous, filthy, obnoxious, suave, whatever it takes to get fucked. Francois Bertrand Jean-Luc Australia is over the top, into the trenches, down in the gutter, up on the ledge, whatever it takes to get _noticed_.

 _Whatever_ it takes, just to get the affirmation he craves. On his knees, on his back, on his stomach, on all fours; strung up, tied down, on top, underneath; any gender, any sex, any creed, any race, any size.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, he says, and fucks a goliath that can easily tear him in half, fucks her so good that afterward she just looks at him like she’d like to slay dragons for him. She pets him and tells him dammit, little ‘un, that was good. That was reeeal good. I aint’ never had anyone that good befo’. And Scanlan’s satisfied.

Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, he says, and fucks a dragonborn that leaves him bruised and unable to walk straight for days, gets fucked by him so good that the dragonborn looks at him afterwards with awe. That was amazing, he says as he tenderly licks the wounds he himself inflicted, I’ve never seen anyone take that much. You’re really something. And Scanlan’s satisfied.

Hey, guys, I have an idea, he says, and fucks his friends in a whirlwind of bodies, fucks and gets fucked until they collapse in a tangle of limbs, spent and happy. And they look at him and say, Scan-man, you really have good ideas sometime. And Vex kisses his cheek and purrs, good boy. And Scanlan’s satisfied.

Alone in the opulently furnished room in the mansion, in his comfortable room in the keep, in his pillow-laden room in Ank’Harel, here’s no confirmation. No affirmation. No distraction.

Masturbating, ultimately, is fucking yourself.

Scanlan… doesn’t.

If he did, no one would tell him he did good.

**Author's Note:**

> So that's everyone. Sorry for ending on a downer, but it just seemed so probable.


End file.
